Minature Disasters
by flawsinscience
Summary: this is the sequel to Chained to You and is once again an Iona CampbellKate Sherrard production. Staring the usual likely suspects from BBC's Holby City
1. Chapter 1

Authors Note: This part was written with Kate S, I began it and she finished it, we aren't exactly sure how it will pan out but it keeps us amused and well blame me for the S&M

Part 1: In too Deep 

If looks could kill Michael would be six feet under right now. Yet he wasn't, no, Mike was sat in his bedroom, rather, awkwardly tied up with handcuffs. You may think you've just stumbled upon an extremely kinky sex scene, no. You've just encountered a fitful spite of revenge. You see, Connie, Mike's goddess of a wife, returned from the course from hell this morning, courtesy of mike. Connie had been fizzing mad as the dirty minibus had made it's way into the hospital car park, spitting feathers was putting it lightly.

"_Good morning dear," he smiled cockily, reaching out to give her a hug._

"_No dear," she repeated his pet word with inconsiderate clumsiness. He wasn't flavour of the month, he doubted if he was even flavour of the year. But shit happens _

She stood facing him, her cleavage pouting at him as she let her body drop to his level. The whip in her hand was slithering closer to his thigh by the minute; "now then, _dear,_" she smiled, licking his skin with the end of the item, sending him crazy with arousal. She stood up. "Do you really think you've been a good enough boy to deserve such pleasures?" she purred, moving away from him and sitting on the edge of the bed. Connie took her time to do up the laces on her boot, the fishnets catching occasionally as she drove herself silly with frustration attempting to lace them up, it only turns dear Michael on more.

Stalking over to him she places a leg between him, stepping as close to him as her footfall will allow. He grimaces in arousal, "you see I don't think you do, and something else, Michael," she pauses as he lifts his head up to her, staring at her sultry dark eyes, lined with charcoal black eyeliner. "I don't think you understand what that course was like," she pouts, crouching down to his level. "But to give you an idea I think I'll let you stew for a while," with that she stands up and turns away from him, her hands rest on her hips akimbo style. As she makes her way to the door he wriggles in protest.

"Connie you have to untie me, NOW!" he squeals as the metal lurches into his arm, she merely smiles as the key is deposited down her top. She grabs the beige coat hanging on the back of the door and leaves.

Ric trudges down the dimly lit corridor of his flat grumbling at the keen visitor waiting at his door, the sleep blurring his vision slightly. "Hold on, I'm coming," he sighs, undoing the several latches that he'd insisted on installing considering the "niceness" of his neighbours. His eyes are somewhat stunned when he finally opens the door; standing in front of him is none other than Connie, he tries to stifle a moan at having to spend any more time with her after the last few nights but she fritters past him, barely missing his bare toes with the heel of her boots.

"Connie, what on earth?" he eyes her warily, his mouth hanging open as she sits on the sofa, crossing and uncrossing her legs in a manner that leaves him in no doubt that she really was wearing nothing but the killer boots, a long, beige coat, a tight black corset and a thong. For a moment he stops, pinching the back of his hand and waiting to wake up. He doesn't. Surely this isn't for real. Apparently it is.

"Oh Ric, do shut your mouth; you look like a stunned goldfish!" she reprimands him sternly and he snaps his mouth closed without even thinking about it; apparently he now has a reflex that makes him obey her every command 'now show me to the bedroom' but possibly not that command. Surely this has to be a joke; surely there is a film crew hiding in the hall waiting to leap out at him brandishing a camera and laughing at him. She stares at him, deadpan as he laughs nervously. Apparently she's serious. Fuck.

"Connie, what on earth are you doing?" he finally manages to croak and she rolls her eyes impatiently, as though he has just asked the most imbecilic question imaginable. Perhaps he has; perhaps the answer is blindingly obvious and he is simply missing something. Of course he is missing something; when a woman shows up on your doorstep at gone midnight clad in clothes that can only be bought in a kinky sex shop her intentions are fairly clear. She wants a repeat performance; only this time apparently the performance involves a degree of sadomasochism, specifically a whip and boots that could inflict severe damage on most parts of the anatomy. He is terrified.

"Ric, Ric, Ric," she tuts and shakes her head with disappointment "I always thought that you were a man of the world. Surely you've seen a _whip_ before" she adds, emphasising the word 'whip', somewhat pleased with the way in which it makes him flinch. If only Michael had Ric's prudish streak then perhaps he wouldn't be in the unfortunate situation in which he now finds himself. Of course that is part of the game; he thought that she'd release him when she was good and ready, and that she'd probably expect sexual favours for him in return.

"I've seen a whip before" he confirms "I just don't understand why you've bought one to my house…"

"Well that's gratitude for you…" she laughs lightly and rolls her eyes in a manner that suggests disappointment that she has apparently underestimated him "I had some time to kill and I don't have to return these clothes to the shop until later, I thought you and I could have some fun"

"Connie, if these clothes aren't for my benefit then…" he pauses for a moment, pondering the wisdom of continuing. He concludes that to persist in this line of questioning would be incredibly unwise. He persists anyway "what are they for?"

"Michael" she replies simply and he feels sick. He's supposed to be grateful for Michael Beauchamp's leftovers? He doesn't know whether to laugh or be insulted.

"I thought you were angry with Michael. The way you behaved at the hospital I got the impression that Michael wouldn't be seeing you like this for a very long time. I thought that you wanted to punish him…" he trails off, once again met with the exceedingly unpleasant suspicion that he has missed something crucial. From the look on her face he can tell that she thinks him incredibly naïve.

"This" she gestures down at her attire with a self satisfied smile "is his punishment. Well part of it"

"You mean…" Ric's heart sinks; unwittingly he has become a pawn in the Beauchamp marriage. Surely this whole set up is Michael's punishment; it is as if he is child and she has bought his favourite toy, only to give it to another child and make him watch. Again he looks for the video cameras.

"Michael thought he was in for a real treat when he saw me – he's always had a perverse enjoyment for the whip. He couldn't get enough of me…"

"Where is Michael?" he enquires wearily; he is certain that he doesn't want to know but at the same time, he cannot help but ask. It's like some sort of morbid fascination.

"At home" she shrugs before giving a malicious laugh that makes his blood run cold "in bed" another laugh "he's a little _tied up_"

"Please, please tell me that you haven't chained your husband up in the bedroom and left him there" he pleads but he knows that he stands little chance; it is abundantly clear that this is exactly what she has done. He can't help but be a little impressed – when she had announced that she was going to punish Michael so much that he wasn't going to know what had hit him he had assumed that she was referring to the silent treatment and sleeping on the sofa for a few days or weeks. He hadn't expected this but he has to admit that it's ingenious; cruel and quite possibly illegal but ingenious nonetheless.

"Oh he loves it" she shrugs "well he does as long as he thinks that I'm coming back. Right about now he'll be starting to wonder whether I intend to leave him there for the night, by tomorrow morning he'll be starting to panic. By the time the police arrive tomorrow afternoon he'll have worked out that I'm not coming"

"You intend to the call the police?" he murmurs, shutting his eyes and making a mental note never to piss her off. Which apparently means that he's going to have to sleep with her and pray that she doesn't chain him to the radiator and call Jess to find him or something equally depraved.

"No, no, no" she shakes her head, giving a tinkling laugh that fills him with foreboding "I intend to call the press and his mother. _Then_ I intend to call the police"

"Connie, this is…" Brilliant? Depraved? Inspired? Illegal? "…Wrong"

"Oh don't be so boring, Ric" she rebukes him with a roll of her eyes and a lopsided smile "the headlines will be fantastic; 'Senior Advisor to the Minister of Health in Kinky Sex Shocker'"

"Or 'Scorned Senior Cardiotharacics Consultant Arrested on Suspicion of Illegal Imprisonment"' he retorts immediately "this is a dangerous game that you're playing"

"Let me worry about that" she reaches out and squeezes his hand reassuringly "that's between me and Michael" another squeeze but this time it isn't his hand that she's squeezing "this, on the other hand, is between you and I. Bedroom?" it's a command not a question. He simply cannot resist.


	2. I Want to Break Free

_The heel of her stiletto's dig into the musty carpet as she somewhat lead's Ric to the bedroom, his ministrations providing little distraction as her tight grip on his collar flings him viciously into the bed. Spluttering he takes his time to recover. "Now, Mr Griffin," her voice is a long silky purr, the edge of her whip drapes along the side of his back, stinging as it recoils, he turns over. Good boy. His face is in line with hers, each eye poker hot in the other, she reaches forward, all he can remember is the glancing look of her chest, he simpers, she kisses. It all ends too quick for him, like a fair ground ride, the adrenalin is just beginning to flow nicely and then boom, it's over and you queue again. Subconsciously he looks over at the door, making sure Mike, Zubin or even Mark isn't there, waiting. It sends a furiously wicked smile across her face. "Come on now Eric," the tone is arousing, lifting him like a solider. She slyly passes the end of the leather object along his thigh, crossing his crotch and moving up his torso, running along his pecks. He winces as it licks at his dark humid skin, icing it like a perverted cake. _

"_You can't have your cake and eat it Connie," he winces as the sharp repercussion of his actions makes itself known. She smirks and produces a key from down her top; he's beginning to wonder where the hell the cuffs to go with it are. Then he remembers, it's like the light of day dawning, Mike is currently attached to them. He shrivels in pain for his wanton friend. She stands up, misplacing her heel as he grabs his delicates; she struts from the room leaving him helpless on the bed._

He can barely keep his eyes open. He is exhausted. He has cried out her name until his voice his hoarse. His muscles ache; up until tonight he has never known true pain. Pain so excruciating that even breathing would double him up in agony if he could move. Pulling himself into as close to a sitting position as he can manage, a small action that causes spasms of agony to shoot through his shoulder blades, he sees his face in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot and his skin is pallid. He looks barely alive. He needs a drink. Not of the alcoholic variety, although he has little doubt that a large measure of whiskey would do much to dull his pain, but at this moment he is so thirsty that he would settle for a glass of water. He calls her name again. She doesn't respond. Perhaps she can't hear him; surely she must be in the vicinity – there is no way she would miss hearing him plead for his release the way that he had made her beg so often for hers. He always had liked to hear her beg. Bitch. What the fuck is he going to do? He is certain that she has a plan and he is absolutely certain that he doesn't want to know what it is. He has to get out of here but his attempts are somewhat hampered by the fact that his arms and legs are chained to the wrought iron bedstead. If he is going anywhere he's going to have to take the bed with him and the bed is bloody heavy; he knows, he's already tried that. What other options are open to him? Looking around the room he realises that there aren't any; he can only lie here and wait to be released. But by whom? By her? Unlikely. By someone else – his boss, the police, the fire brigade – frighteningly plausible. Why just torture him when she can humiliate him as well? He cries out again. Nothing. Bitch. Then he sees it, lying just out of his reach. Clearly she wished to torture him further by leaving the key to his freedom just out of his reach. Not literally – even if she had left the key to the cuffs he hasn't the agility to contemplate using them while trussed up like a turkey – but in the form of his mobile.

_He's about to stand up, having recovered from the trip he's been on, when she struts back into the room he's sure she's changed something, her lips are even more poisonous red in colour, her eyelashes are visible from meters away, her skin is smooth, he has no recollection of anyone looking so immensely gorgeous, not even her. She prowls over to him, sinking onto his lap with her hands draping around his neck, they fall to his lips, imparting their colour with ease, under normal circumstances he'd not be so party to this but he's loosing control; fast. Her hand sinks down his chest, teasing material off his back; his pecks berated by her tongue rolling over them in fits of lust. Tumbling towards his waist she regains her poise and forces him to move up the bed, his head now resting on the pillow, his modesty being fast revealed as she undid the drawstring of his joggers, they fall limply to his feet, he's not wearing underwear to her surprise. The whip is put to one side, she needs all her concentration as he inwardly groans in ecstasy, her grip on his manhood is tight, then weak, her tongue works it's way to the tip, swirling in teasing flicking motions, the look on his face is a picture but he can't hold it in any longer, a long sultry groan escaping his lips before he has time to stop it. Her mouth withdraws, it's like releasing the dam, her finger's grasping does little to quell the flow; it feels worryingly good though. Not that he's protesting as she lifts up his length, groping at in the right places, he's confident it's only been Zubin Khan who's experienced such favours from a leather clad vixen, it's the only way to describe it. It's when her thumb starts making odd movements that his ideas are caught up in some whirlwind of adrenaline, turn on, pleasure that he looses complete control. _

She has underestimated him. It has been a long time since they have been together; weeks, maybe months since they had anything but lazy, bored, perfunctory sex. Clearly she has forgotten that he prides himself on particularly flexible legs and feet. He doubts that she has forgotten the foot jobs that he would give her during board meetings once upon a time when they were happy together. He doesn't know when they stopped finding one another remotely attractive. He doesn't much care. He shifts slightly, adrenaline coursing through his body, numbing the pain that shoots through his weary muscles like someone stabbing him repeatedly in the upper arms, legs and lower back. Not too much further… just a couple of inches… a quick swipe of his big toe and it slips towards him. It isn't close enough for him to be able to dial the numbers – with his hands tied above his head he is somewhat limited in that department – but it is close enough to leave the top row of buttons within his reach. He has the send buttons and three speed dial options. Number one, her mobile. It certainly has it's merits – if she answers, which he doubts, then he can verbally abuse her until she comes and lets him go. Or, more likely, she will hang up on him. Number two, his solicitor; an entertaining prospect perhaps but one better left for when he is fully dressed and planning to sue the bitch for everything, including the corset on her back. Number three. Who is number three? He suspects that it might be his mother but he is sure that he set her as 6; he saw it as perversely symbolic – one third of the devil (and two thirds cantankerous old bat). If not her then more than likely it's a recent conquest. His PA? No, she's number four. His sister-in-law? No, number seven. His therapist? No, he's a man and set to number eight. Chrissie? Yes, number three is Chrissie. Thank fuck for that. He moves stiffly, tapping the number and then the call button before twisting painfully and hitting the speakerphone button.

"Hello" a deep and sultry voice answers the phone and he finds himself whimpering with relief "Hello?" she sounds pissed off and for a horrible moment he thinks that she's going to hang up, thinking that he's joking around.

"Don't hang up" he screams at the phone and he hears her take a sharp breath inwards as her tones become clipped.

"Michael, is that you?" she asks, her voice weary; she already knows the answer and he knows that she is as pissed off as his wife about that bloody course, if not more so.

"You've got to help me"

_He's had enough of being preyed on by someone with such a matrix domineering presence; he rolls over, curtailing the actions. With a minor pout she relinquishes, allowing his hands to explore her body, slinking over her midriff, she can barely feel a thing through the corset sucking her into nothing, she looks perfectly vivacious her chest somewhat pouting at him as he lifts the ties undone, it falls open like a Easter egg, cracking the tough exterior as he kissed her torso, her nipples standing proud as he tickled them first with his tongue swishing over them with the gentlessnes only he posses, then with his hands, the slight touch of a finger hardening them further still. He moves further down, laying butterfly kisses at strategic points on her belly, he struggles as she writhes in protest, slinking wistfully on the bed he wrestles her thong from it's position, casting it off like a used toy, the pram is kind of full already, he enters her, slowly snaking his way up, making her wait till he's good and ready, wincing as he caught her hands, leaving her devoid of a hold, leaning closer towards her she could feel him graze her G spot. Letting out a short cry of pleasure he drove deeper sending her control out of equilibrium, past the point of returning, gravity pinning her to the bed as his force grew more masculine. It felt like a beat was taking over her body, sending it to euphoria, and right back to earth again consuming her body in waves, peaking and falling like sea horse crests. Kinky. Their legs and hands entwine in something that can only be described as lustful, her legs are dewy to the touch now, an involuntary consequence of being so satanically turned on, she deserves it, looking like Satan's daughter does create a bit of a whir. He continues, feeling like tomorrow will too soon, it's like leaving someone behind before going to war, Lucifer's war is evil…._

"She's done a good job on you" Chrissie laughs humourlessly, eyeing the bolt cutters in a manner which he finds frankly terrifying. If there's one thing worse than being left tied to a bed by a scorned wife it is having a scorned lover using bolt cutters anywhere near you. He is sure he's going to lose a toe: at best.

"Please, let me out" he whimpers, feeling another couple of ligaments in his shoulder being ripped from their moorings. It will take years of physio before he'll be able to play squash again. Bitch.

"Calm down" Chrissie laughs again, apparently enjoying his predicament. For a horrible moment he wonders if she's in on this whole thing. Perhaps the location of the phone wasn't an oversight on Connie's part; perhaps it was all part of the plan. She wanted him to call Chrissie so she could come and ridicule his position, threaten him with bolt cutters and then leave again. Fuck.

"Chrissie, please" he tries again, more assertively this time and to his relief she picks up the bolt cutters with less urgency than he would consider ideal and moves towards the shackle nearest to her.

_It feels like the pride before a fall as they somehow levitate towards the shower, smaller than the one she shares at home which bares little effect on them, in fact it makes things far more sensual, wet skin on skin has a prerogative nature. It's like a vicious trickle of the antichrist's blood pouring on them, condoning their relationship. A blessing, she should be wearing a dark veil, hiding her innocence, he doesn't like that, but Ric's far from caring as his hands explore her body, shifting them up and down, her breasts are kissable as he obliges. Missing her lips soon causes him consequences as she makes her presence known, he reacts immediately finding her lips, warmed from the steam enveloping their bodies, harmonising them like a photograph creates a memory, it's childish to be doing this, but in some ways it feels ten thousand times more kinky than it did on the course, in the office, anywhere else. Probably the knowledge that her husband is currently tied up somewhere across town and he's currently, putting it bluntly, having it off with her in his shower, life's a bitch. _

"Thank you" he mumbles as his limbs curl involuntarily into his body and he lies in a trembling ball on the bed "thank you"

"You're very stiff" she murmurs, casting the chains to one side and moving astride him, rubbing his shoulders in a manner so firm that he finds himself crying out in pleasure.

"What do you bloody expect?" he asks once he has regained the power of speech "I've been chained to the fucking bed for five hours"

"Five hours? Is that all? Lightweight" Chrissie teases him lightly as she continues her ministrations, her long hands moving in smooth circles around his back "only last week I was chained up like that all night. I mean admittedly I… we… were drunk but we didn't make this much fuss" another vicious laugh "never mind, I'll forgive you"

For a moment he is speechless. What on earth is he supposed to say to that? Even if he could work it out, he no longer possesses the power of speech as most of his faculties melt away beneath her almost hypnotic touch. Slowly he rolls over, watching her fall so she is lying beside him, her slender limbs entwined in his aching ones. He doesn't know what to do now and then it comes to him, as clear as day. He kisses her.


	3. Affirmation

For a long time they lie, their limbs entwined, in the bottom of the shower, feeling as the scalding needles of water give way to gentle warmth and eventually cold as his unreliable water tank finally gives out under the strain. Eventually she moves within his arms and he opens his eyes and looks at her with surprise; he had thought that she was asleep although he hasn't been able to drift off himself because every time he closes his eyes he is plagued by the not entirely pleasant experience of flashbacks of their activity interspersed with images of Michael lying on the bed, tied up and screaming for help. He wonders if he should go and untie him but he doesn't want to risk her wrath when she finds out what he's done. Michael's a big boy; he's made his bed so he's got to lie in it.

'Are you alright?' he peers down at her as she shifts away from him and drags herself lethargically to her feet, reaching for a towel and wrapping it around her body, preserving modesty that she shed hours earlier. She looks exhausted but he isn't surprised; the course was demanding, she had been horribly hungover less than twenty four hours earlier and she was running on pure adrenaline from whatever she had inflicted upon her husband. At some point it was bound to catch up with her and it seems that it's going to be now.

'Fine' she states bluntly, barely looking him in the eye as she roots through the clutch – black studded leather he notes with a wry smile – and removes her mobile, running her hands somewhat seductively over the soft, silver plastic encasement before flipping it open and peering wearily at the dials 'there's a couple of calls that I have to make'

'You're not seriously intending to call the press on your husband are you?' he asks warily but he suspects that he knows the answer; of course she is intending to call the press on him, and his mother and whatever else she threatened. Coming from her, a threat is tantamount to a promise of pain.

'Eleanor' her tones are clipped as she speaks in the phone and he moves from the shower, lying beside her and wrapping his arms around her, slipping his leg between hers and feeling her shudder involuntarily. Perhaps she is not as worn out as she looks; from the way in which she responds, slipping her free hand between his legs with an innocent smile playing across her face, he feels relatively confident that he'll be in for a repeat performance before she goes home. Strangely he finds the idea that she is giving him a hand job at the same time as setting her Rottweiler of a mother-in-law on her husband, even more of a turn on 'I wonder if you'd mind doing me a favour. I'm away for the night… yes, work… but it was somewhat unexpected and I didn't leave any food in the house for Michael… Yes…' she emits a cruel and bitter titter at whatever her mother in law has said '…he is absolutely useless without a woman to run around after him. I'm not too worried about him – he'll root out a takeaway menu if he gets hungry – but I'm concerned he'll forget to feed Scarlet'

'Scarlet?' Ric whispers in consternation but he finds himself silenced by a single, manicured finger pressed against his lips and a warning frown leaving him to ponder the identity of the mysterious Scarlet in silence. It must be a pet. They don't strike him as a couple who would go in for pets but at the same time, he is absolutely certain that they haven't got children and he can't think of any other possible explanation.

'Thanks Eleanor' she smiles tightly and ends the call, sending several speedy text messages which he has unpleasant suspicion are going to land in the inboxes of several members of the gutter press. Eventually she turns to him with a weary smile, wrapping her arms around him and gazing up at him with what looks suspiciously like contentment. This is strange; he has never known her to be content – she spends her life striving for better and better things and contentment and complacency aren't in her nature.

'Who's Scarlet?' he asks eventually and she gives a small snort of a laugh through her nose and buries her face in his chest in a vain attempt to disguise her obvious amusement.

'Scarlet is the clownfish that Michael bought me on our tenth wedding anniversary. Wasn't quite the gesture I was looking for – jewellery or a dirty weekend in Paris would have served just as well – but he thought that it was romantic and she's quite a pretty little thing. It seems a shame to let her die just because he's useless' she shrugs lightly and gives a slightly twisted smile 'and a little tied up at present…'

'That was nice' Chrissie gazed up at him sleepily and gave a small smile as he looked down at her and tried not to grimace. His problem was not with waking up beside her – she was beautiful and since she had relieved him of the horrendous pain in which Connie had left him, he found himself increasingly drawn to her. He grimaced because his shoulders had completely seized up and his knees were stiff and aching. He grimaced because his head thumped and in the back of his mind was the notion that when she found out that he had managed to gain his release – and as a result of her own carelessness and ill thought out actions – she would do something far, far worse. He grimaced because for all the beautiful woman beside him had saved him and followed that by some of the most tender and spectacular sex that he had ever experienced, he found that he wished that he were lying beside his wife, even if her sanity was questionable. It seems strange but no matter what she did to him – and with the handcuffs she truly had excelled herself – he can't resist her and knows that he will always go back for more. It appeared that he was incapable of hating her.

'Hello?' he hears a key turning in the lock and his mothers voice echoes through the house, shrivelling him instantly as Chrissie looks up at him in askance. How can he tell her that the situation has horrifying parallels with the time when he was fifteen and caught with the next door neighbours older daughter in his parent's bed by his devout Catholic mother and the vicar? She's about to catch him not only in bed with another woman but in a bed with handcuffs dangling uselessly from it, making it look like a prop from a low budget porn film.

'Mum…' he calls out, shifting Chrissie discreetly beneath the pillows and moving painfully towards the bedroom door as his muscles seized up in protest 'I'm in the bedroom…' he trails off as he hears the telltale creak of her stepping on the bottom stair 'I'm not…' he pauses as his mother throws open the door without a second thought, just as she used to when he was younger '…decent…'All at once he is fifteen again. He reaches out, grabbing the sheet from over Chrissie and wrapping it around him, paying little attention to her anguished screams as she finds herself unceremoniously exposed to his mother.

'Well…' for a moment the old woman is silent and he would swear that the temperature in the room actually drops although that may be because he's standing naked in the path of a breeze '… that isn't Connie'

'You look…' he searches his extensive vocabulary for a word to describe her appearance but can come up with little more than the unimaginative 'different' that he settles upon. She does, in fact, look like a completely different woman to the one who appeared on his doorstep dressed in S & M shop finest and brandishing a whip. Now the only hint of leather in her attire is in the sensible flat, brown shoes that adorn her feet. Gone is the tight black corset that left little to the imagination and it's replacement, a white blouse and brown wrap-around cardigan flung casually over her shoulder is much less intriguing. His gaze moves further downwards and he takes in the brown, tweed trousers that graze her ankle, catching a glimpse of a hint of last nights stocking peeking out in the small space between where her trouser ends and her shoe begins. Her make up has been toned down; instead of red, whore lipstick and dark, dramatic eyes she now sports little more than moisturiser, clear mascara and a pale lip-gloss. It seems she's even found time to wash her hair, swapping the gel which held it in seductive spikes for softly blow-dried curls which frame her face, giving her an air of femininity that he has never seen in her before. She looks oddly demure, every inch the suburban housewife, and if he didn't know different he would never in a million years believe that she would go within a hundred metres of a corset or a whip. She doesn't even look much like Connie; she looks terrifying.

'I've had a call from my mother-in-law' she states shortly, her face twisting into the displeased grimace of one who has fallen into her own trap and doesn't like it 'seems that when she went to feed the fish she found Michael in bed…'

'With the handcuffs?' he asks wearily, wondering at precisely which point her plan has fallen down. He is in no doubt that she has been unsuccessful because the air of triumph he would have expected if Michael had been caught as planned is entirely absent. Instead she seems almost upset.

'With the W h o r e of Babylon' she states bitterly, sitting on the edge of the bed and sinking her head into her immaculately manicured hands. He notices that she's even found the time to swap her red talons for a neat French polish. For a moment he wonders whether he dreamt the night before. If not he wants to marry her; having been married to five women who've spent far too much time in the bathroom it is a breath of fresh air to meet a woman who can perform such a spectacular transformation in less than an hour.

'Chrissie?' he guesses and one look from her confirms his suspicions 'how?'

'Because I was too f u c k i n g clever for my own f u c k i n g good' she snarls, obviously disgusted with herself and he fights the urge to flinch, run and hide behind the sofa. She might look like a Desperate Housewife but she still as the temperament of a volatile whore. Strangely this is a relief; it proves that the change is only skin deep.

'What did you do?' he enquires, taking the precaution of sliding along the bed out of her reach before asking this question; she might be furious with herself but he wouldn't put it past her to take out her fury on him. He's certainly not about to take the risk.

'I thought I'd taunt him by leaving a mobile just out of his reach but I seem to have miscalculated. He called the b i t c h, she trotted over with the bolt cutters and by the time his mother and the press arrived she was kissing it all better' she gives a twisted smile which he finds a little unnerving as he suspects that the game is far from over and really doesn't want to be drawn further into it 'the headline is now "Aide to the Minister of Health in Extra Marital S e x Romp Shocker" and as soon as I get home the bloody press will be camping to find out what I have to say on the matter'

'What do you have to say?' he asks, somewhat intrigued by her reaction as she stands up, stuffs the black clutch into the large, brown overnight bag and extracts a leather bag which matches the exact tone of her jumper; he doesn't think he's ever seen one person wear so much brown and he's not sure that it suits her. She's starting to make him crave chocolate.

'Nothing publishable' she replies with a snarl and picks up the bag, slinging it over her shoulder and striding towards the door, flinging it open and stalking over to her car before she turns back to him 'I'll probably be back later. Don't wait up'

'Wait, I'll come with you' he calls out, pausing only for a moment to ponder the wisdom of this course of action.

'Bloody hell' he peers through the windscreen at the six or seven journalists littering the front lawn as she pulls up outside and gives him a slightly nervous look. Even though she's bought it upon herself she seems afraid of facing them and without layers of make up he can see how pale and unhappy she looks.

'If they try and accost you, just say no comment and keep walking' she advises blandly, throwing open the car door and hurtling up the drive, not bothering to shut it behind her as she disappears through the door which an elderly woman who he presumes to be her mother-in-law is holding open. She looks as shell-shocked as he feels and he can't help but think that the two of them are nothing more than innocent bystanders in the Beauchamp's circus of a marriage. As he enters the house, the door slams behind him, narrowly stopping a couple of journalists following him inside and he takes in the somewhat amusing sight of Chrissie and Michael sitting like scolded children in the centre of a white leather sofa while Connie presides over the pair of them, clearly having trouble deciding who to murder first and whether to take them into the kitchen beforehand to avoid destroying her own soft furnishings.

'Don't make out that you're the wounded party here, Connie' Michael stands up and looks her in the eye, apparently prepared to discuss what had transpired the night before in front of his mother and the crowd of journalists who are listening at the letter box.

'Why not? I am' she snarls, shooting Chrissie a look which sends shivers down the spines of everyone in the room. Eleanor is starting to look as though she would dearly love the floor to open up and swallow her; he wonders if the hole would be big enough to take him too. This is one grudge match that he really doesn't want to witness.

'You left me chained to the bed' his voice rises in self-righteous hysteria and his lower lip starts to tremble; he looks like a petulant child and even his mother looks like she'd dearly love to disown him. Chrissie just looks sick.

'That's absurd' Connie states without missing a beat and he has to admit that she's impressive; he knows that Michael is telling the truth and he's still tempted to believe Connie's version of events 'I was called away with work and you took the opportunity to invite your little…' she trails off, giving Chrissie an unpleasant grimace as she attempts to come up with a way to describe her 'b i t c h over to keep the bed warm in my absence. Don't you dare try to blame me…'

'Oh come on Connie, you know that's a lie, Chrissie…' he looks at Chrissie who just shrugs and looks resigned; they all know that even if she leaps to his defence it will make little difference. It will just look as if they're both lying.

'Michael, you're the one who's bought all this upon yourself. You're the one who got caught with your pants down in the marital bed. Learn to accept some responsibility' her voice cracks and she presses a hand to her face as if stifling an outpouring of emotion. Beside him he notices Eleanor move towards her and put an arm around her, giving her son a disgusted look. Michael merely looks bemused and Ric finds himself almost pitying the other man who has been well and truly stitched up by a woman with twice his intellect.

'You're a poisonous bitch, do you know that?' he gives Connie a look of utter contempt and she pushes past him, hurtling through the kitchen and out into the garden. For several moments they're stunned into silence but eventually, without a word, he follows her outside.


	4. Life In Slow Motion

Stepping out into the stark morning sunshine bore a fresh blow on his predicament. One extremely p is s ed off wife had been the least of his issues this time yesterday yet seeing her standing fingering the dead end of a cigarette made his heart sink, "Connie," feeble words that began a miserable attempt at reconcile, "come on, you're hardly peaches and cream in all of this," his bottom lip somewhat cursed as she turned round, in one fell swoop killing the butt of glowing cigarette with her pointed toe, the look on her face one he'd only seen twice in recent history, announcing the course, and her coming home from it. Her devil stare he kindly referred to it as.

"Peaches and Cream," she repeated, animosity tracing on each syllable, "seems like you prefer Strawberries and cream from my perspective," she continued, walking further away from him whilst still toying with the semi filled packet in her hand.

"Comes this from the w h o r e who dressed up like something out of an Amsterdam nightclub, you were supposed to have learnt to control your fond use of handcuffs, not magnify your need, all you had to do was ask," standing so that her face was pry to the sun he recoiled in coward as her harmonious face turned to something of an out of tune junior violin group, each furrow in her head deepening till it riled in disgust.

"Ask? Michael for f u c k s sake if I was that desperate I could have had any man at the hospital," came the wincing reply, whether that statement could be with held she wasn't sure, Ric was a sure bet, Professor Khan, well even she wasn't that low, Reg, the jury was out on him and any other man would have done fine. On the other hand she was more than confidant, Mickie, Diane, Donna at a push made her quell the will to thump him there and then. Knowing a spectacle in front of his mother would be anything but effective.

"Fat Chance, you're a surgeon not an on call sex therapist," he retorts with a high and mighty scowl berating on his face. It's been a long time since they've had a quarrel of this magnitude, especially in their extensive backyard and sniping press made it a unique experience for both of them.

"That may be but I'm certainly not around for you to abuse when you want, sending the staff on this course was over the top, making the point only served to rile everyone up and you've narrowly missed a law suit," taking a deep breath she started on another cigarette, lighting the end slowly and dragging on it for as long as fate would allow her, "calling her was desperate,"

"Calling her was practical, not what I'd call ideal, far from it, but you left me high and dry," flicking her feet nervously on the ground she let her edgy laughter fill the air as he struggled to find the works riding the balance between her b it c h slapping him and storming off in a huff bound to begin world war 3. " it's a game, that's all," perfecting the wrong comment sent her down the end of the garden, spying the bench only worn by summers of neglect and winter's of ignorance. "Connie come on, don't be such a child,"

"Leave off Michael," she replied stonily, storming till the length of the garden separated them. Deciding the less painful option was to return to the warmth of the house he made a point of slamming the French door tight shut and locking it so she was alone, her hands fumbling nervously with the packet in her hand as her mind coursed through various options, killing Mike, well prison wasn't her idea of fun, sacking Chrissie, though enjoyable it was entirely unethical, and any other choice gave little to the adrenaline rush she craved.

"Are you trying to p is s as many people as possible off," came the stony sulk of a reply, it took her a moment to decipher its origin.

"Not you too Ric," she muttered as he sunk into the damp seat, leaning over so his crumpled posture defended him against her shifty mood, it was a worrying thought that less than 12 hours ago they were having rampantly passionate sex that he'd never experienced before and now they were in a dank yard with only dead flowers and sorry looking shrubbery for company.

"He's mad to say the least, is this the desired effect?" his question was unintentional, meant more as a statement of fact rather than as a rhetorical question, turning to look at her he was slightly aghast, her skin had paled in colour, the blood draining from her cheeks; a crossfire of emotions.

"What do you think?" she enquired, stiffly taking her usual command of a tenuous situation, answering questions with more questions, suspicious of every word uttered towards her. It had become an inbuilt reaction to living with Michael; games created tension, suspicion and general mis guided trust, the sort that kept her on her toes, edgy to the point of paranoia.

"Hurting people is no way to retaliate Connie, you could have been a lot more subtle," Ric replied hastily, spewing crap that made little difference to her felt like common place now, in this sort of mind frame toying with her way pointless. It took a moment for anything to happen, a moment that he let himself slip back into memories that frequented his mind, absorbing himself in the night at the course, the way they'd felt like teenagers, free from adult restriction, free to do what they liked, wives or mothers, fathers or husbands, they amounted to the very same thing; responsibilities.

"Michael doesn't do subtle, come on Ric Michael wouldn't know any different if I had done it in an undercut way, subtly left the marriage eon's ago, now what am I to do with Mother Teresa, the w h o r e of Babylon and Satan himself, hmmm?" she let a angelic smile cross her lips before rendering her head to her hands swirling her first finger on the strained temples that continued to make stead fast decisions.

"Do they belong in the house, chuck out S a t a n as you refer to him and the rest go packing, it appears to me that mummy's boy isn't going to stick out another fight," he retorted coolly, resting back on his laurels with the cheeky grin that so often portrayed itself on his weathered features.

"That's either desperate or depraved, and I'm not sure which yet?" she smirked, returning to her feet with hands resting on her hips akimbo style "But you may well have a point, sending him out now could be amusing and serve the purpose well," stalking away with the backward glance of a smirk she winked at him before lifting a key from the brown trousers that still managed to hang elegantly and clung in the right places as he watched her shuffle the two steps into the house.

Even sitting in the garden he was aware of the ruckus in the house, the raised voices covering the audible noise of heels clanking on the wooden flooring, perfect opportunity for him to slip out the back gate, she would be in no mood to talk whatsoever, most likely to spend the evening with a bottle of red wine and the coal fire aimed at replenishing the soul, something he knew was best done on a lonesome.

"Connie you cannot be serious, there are f u c k I n g press out there," he stated simply, raising his hands to the sky in exasperation, her request had been simple, 'slip out the front quietly or get reported to the GMC for general misconduct and abuse of staff' both carried a serious dose of shame and misfortune yet he didn't seem to care that the local rag would run a mockery of him, his career was the balls of him so to speak so by bringing that into was underhand yet effective.

"And your point is Michael, you'll have plenty of support, your mother and lover can accompany you," she replied vehemently, the dogmatic smile only sent him into even more of a childish tantrum. Standing still long enough for a pointed gaze to meet his eye Michael stormed through to the kitchen, bemused as to how Chrissie and his mother could be so calm as to make coffee in the midst of a marital row as huge as this.

"Mother I'm taking you home and Chrissie is running late for work, we'd best be off," he stated icily as Connie stood out of the way in the living room, busying herself with tidying the magazine's knocked over in the kafuffle.

"But Michael dear, there are lots of press outside, why not wait a bit?" Eleanor stated mildly, taking dirty plates to the sink before reaching for her coat on the tabletop.

"Connie needs some time to herself, just get to the car as quickly as possible," he replied, slightly manhandling Chrissie towards the heavy oak door, completely ignoring Connie who'd retreated up the stairs.

Letting the latch on the door go began a frenzy of flashes, somewhat blinding Connie from her ideal vantage point in the master bedroom, peeking from behind the curtains gave her a rush she'd been waiting for, a smug satisfaction.


End file.
